Possessed by a loa
by Argadan
Summary: This is my first chapter for my OC based on both Supernatural and Shadowman universes. We follow Deacon LeRoi, here in his origins' story to become a hunter.


Possessed by a Loa

 _Chapter 1: 10th anniversary_

Tracy Chapman's Fast Car broke the silence of the motel room, blasting from the cell phone placed on the nightstand. This is what he needed to wake up; the sound and the music's passage had to pass through the awful headache that struck the young man. His fingers struggled to cut the sound, or just to press the snooze button; he needed the music to stop, or his head would blow up. His groans worked like an incantation, as they seemed to help him focus enough to stop the app, thus plunging the room into another silent era. A silence only disturbed by the familiar sound of a struggling body under some low quality bed sheets.

As he finally emerged from his tormented slumber, Deacon's eyes finally rested on his phone, which now displayed the date and hour of the day: October 28, 2015. When the hour finally turned at 8:00, a notification showed up. "Yeah I know. It's been ten years, already." His cracked voice still held the stigmata of his rough evening. The hunt of a Wendigo, in the vast area of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, in Washington, that resulted in the rescue of a group of teenagers, making a good reason to stop at the local bar and get wasted. Despite the killer headache that made his head pound like a heart in love, the young hunter had enough presence to remember what happened, ten years ago in his hometown of New Orleans.

* * *

 _October 28, 2005_

In the terrible aftermath of the hurricane Katrina, Deacon LeRoi was supposed to be a young student, supposed to start his sophomore year at the Benjamin Franklin High School. He was a happy young man, more driven by the desire to see his friends at school rather than to study, which was something that put his father often out of his mind. His teachers kept saying that he had a great potential, but his lack of work seemed to be sufficient for him. But today was a special day. Ten years ago, Deacon lost his mother in some tragic circumstances. Thankfully, as they lived in the suburbs of the Big Easy, the LeRoi's home was one of the remaining safe havens that survived the hurricane.

Every year, this date was a source of sadness in the LeRoi's home, and every year, Deacon woke up to take a long look at the photo on his nightstand. He would see the reflection of his face on the glass, as he stared at the loving woman, holding a two year old baby. And just like every time, tears would form in his eyes, blurring his vision. This uncomfortable feeling would go on until he would put the photo back on the wooden furniture and wipe his tears away. This year though, was different; it would mark the tenth anniversary of Daniela's passing. As symbolic as it was, Deacon wasn't expecting that kind of different. As he made his way toward the kitchen for breakfast, something caught his attention from the corner of his eyes. Upon closer inspection, the young man took a closer look at this strange white trail placed on line under the corridor's window. "It's salt, son. Don't sweat it and go get your breakfast. There are a few toasts in the toaster already, so go on; I'll meet you there in a while."

Alan LeRoi used to be a happy go lucky father, always ready to tell a joke to lighten the atmosphere. Unfortunately, this year also stood for the tenth anniversary of his transformation. Ten years ago, after the strange death of his wife, Alan lost every hope. Even his son wasn't able to bring back the smile that used to be part of his daily life. Instead, the elder male spent countless days reading occult books about different subjects; ghosts, hoodoo, mysterious assassinations and so on. Deacon would sometimes sneak in his father's office, and he couldn't help but to be shocked at the books' subjects. Those were definitely the kind of things that would earn a good mockery from the kid and his friends at school. But to see his father being so focused about this all restrained Deacon to laugh at it while he was in the room. In fact, the young student couldn't remember the last time he's heard his father's laughter. It felt like an eternity, as if Alan clearly lost his ability to laugh, or even smile. The man was only the shell of who he once was, and turned to be much more authoritative than before. His words were to be followed without any question, and this simple explanation of what was placed below the windows was enough for Deacon to catch the drift. So the youngster did as told and went to the kitchen.

Just like his father promised, breakfast was already prepared for the taking. Deacon poured himself some coffee, tossed a sugar spoon in it and a little cloud of milk. Stirring the spoon in the light brown drink allowed Deacon to focus on his thoughts, trying his best to remember his mother, but unfortunately for him, the kid was only five, at this time. The only things he would remember from her were when he looked at the photos of his mother, or the different items that were placed in display around in the house. And what Deacon was scared of, was starting to happen: the memory of his mother was fading, and soon, if he didn't have a photo of his mother around him, he couldn't remember the features that composed her face, despite the numerous comments of his relatives, who said that Deacon was the exact portrait of his mother, with the eyes of his father. This simple and yet destructive thought was enough to pull more tears from the young man's eyes, and surprised himself thinking that this day would have been better spent in bed. The only consolation was the fact that it was a Friday, and thus, his schedule freed him from school at noon.

Just as he was expecting it, nothing could pass down his throat, as if his coffee was made of concrete, and the simple action to glance at the still hot toasts was enough to tell him that they wouldn't pass either. A simple sigh had already some issues escaping his lungs, as they had the difficult task to go up his trachea to finally let lose. Despite trying his best to think at anything else but his mother, Deacon kept on failing. He knew he had his weekly French class at 10 with the college's favourite teacher Mrs Martin ("pronounce with French's intonation, please") whose incredible beauty truly was the reason of this love, of course. Deacon, though wasn't like his comrades. Just as his family name implied it, the young student could trace his origins back to France, who arrived to the New World during a dark and obscure period of history that his father was not proud of. Unfortunately, as much as he loved this class, he just could not focus enough to prepare himself for his trip to the college and focus on the content his teachers would spit at them. It was a big surprise when his father made his entrance in the kitchen, holding a long piece of dark metal in his hand.

"Y'ain't goin' to school today, son. I already called in sick, so you're staying here." Any other day, Deacon would have jump around the house, happy to hear the news, but not this time. Given the usually authoritative attitude of his father, Deacon could count on one hand the number of times he was allowed to stay home –even if he was truly sick-. Was it because it was the tenth anniversary of the death of his mother? Did he notice how much it was affecting him? The LeRoi's heir went with that option, not knowing that the reason was far from what he could ever think of.

"Thanks dad, I... I didn't feel that good today." Even his words had trouble come out loud and clear; air wasn't passing well through his tight-by-sadness trachea. "But what're you doin'?" He had to ask. This was something he never saw his father do, and it just looked weird. He saw his father pouring another line of salt under the kitchen's only window, and right as Deacon asked him what he was doing, Mr LeRoi placed the metal bar above the window, holding it steady with the little plastic hook that used to support curtains.

"Don't ask. Take the salt and do the same in your bedroom. A line of salt under your windows and don't come back 'til it's done, you hear me?" His voice sounded harsher than previously. This was no suggestion or request; it was an order. But before Deacon could say or do anything, his father has already left the room, heading straight into the living room. A quick glance his way revealed an impressive arsenal of salt cans and other pieces of this strange dark metal. Among them, Deacon recognized a chimney poker, and knew for a fact that they were mostly made of iron. Iron? Why would he own so much iron and place them above the windows and the entry door? But those were questions he would not get an answer for. Deacon knew that if his father ordered something, he had to obey and not ask anything. So he left his coffee to cool here on the table and grabbed the salt that his father used in the kitchen, and headed toward his bedroom.

His first reflex, when he stepped into the light decorated bedroom, was to take a quick look at the night stand, where the picture of his mother was proudly standing. As much as he wanted to look at it and talk to her, his father gave him a mission that he had to complete. So he did as told, and knelt in front of the windows, imitating his father, by creating the same trail of salt under the window. Now that he was the one doing it, Deacon noticed that it had to come from a side of the window to the other, with no interruption. What was it about? Is that some kind of ancient ritual of grievance? The youngster made a mental note to sneak in his father's office to make his own research, knowing he wouldn't get any response from his father. It did not take long to trace a salt line under the windows, but he remembered that his father also placed some iron above them. The young student then headed toward the chair in his room, moved all the clothes placed on it to his bed and finally placed the chair next to the window. Thanks to this improvised ladder, Deacon was able to see above the window, and was not surprised to see that two bars were placed here. He used his hand to feel the strange object and brought his fingers to his nose, smelling the distinctive scent of the metal.

"Iron." Deacon almost jumped off the chair when he heard his father's deep voice coming from the threshold of his bedroom. When he finally steadied himself on the floor, Deacon apologized. "I'm sorry dad, I saw what you did in the kitchen and what you had stocked onto the coffee table and..." Tears started to form in his eyes, blurring the vision. "What is happenin'? What are you doin'? And why can't I go to school? And don't use the excuse that it's the tenth anni-"

"You can't understand, son." Despite Alan cut his son's sentence short, his voice was exceptionally soft, reassuring. "I know it's difficult for you. It's been ten long years and... Trust me, ain't no day I'm regrettin' your mom." He paused a moment, going to the nightstand, and took the picture in his large hands, finally smiling as he looked at his deceased woman. "I really wish you had known her more than five years. You'll never find anyone nicer than her, she was just... Sweetness incarnated." His eyes then left the picture to stop on his son, still standing by the chair, the skin of his right cheek split in half by a wet trace of a teardrop. It was so much more difficult for him than his son would ever understand. The shape of his nose, that smile he was able to show and even the dark brown colour of his hair made Deacon a perfect image of his mother. It's like seeing his sweet Daniela living and breathing here, only watching him with the green eyes he himself held. And this, cut Alan's smile, turning into a light smirk, almost imperceptible. The same green eyes that was passed down from father to son in the LeRoi's family, the same eyes he felt like judging him. He could not explain it, but it was like feeling the guilt for not being able to do anything to save his wife, ten years prior. Was this the reason why he was so hard on the kid? Probably. But God knows how much he loves him, and he knew that if any harm would be done to his unique son, Alan could not bear to live. "Later, when you're older, I'll tell you why I done that." He finally replied, placing the frame picture of his wife on his son's nightstand. "I just need you to trust me, now."

"To trust you?" Now the tears were tears of anger. "What the fuck is happenin' here?! I am fifteen, dad! I ain't no kid no more, dammit! Why won't you tell me the truth for once? How am I supposed to trust you if you don't tell me why you're acting so freakin' weird today! I know it ain't about mom! You wouldn't allow me to skip school, even on this day!" Screaming like that at his father felt extremely relieving, a damn good therapy, as he felt all the guilt and grief just leave his body, in the forms of words thrown at his father. "Salt and iron? Near windows and doors?! What the hell are you doin'?! /Tell/ me!"

Now that was a reaction neither of them was expecting. Deacon has always been a good son, following his father's every decision without question, so what a surprise it was to see him rebel like this and order the truth. Could he blame him? No. He was right. There was so much the kid did not know, but for his own sake, his father chose to keep him in the dark, and preserve his innocence. He wanted to protect him, but right now, it felt like a bomb at the edge of explosion. If he did not say the truth right now, Alan could lose his son forever. "C'mere." He finally said, giving up on his promise to keep him in the dark. Father and son sat down at the edge of the bed, next to each other.

"Your mother didn't die in a car crash, as you were told." Of course, ten years of lies would not be easy to take, but for reasons. "She was assassinated." Alan paused again, allowing his son to take in the huge information that just made his whole world shatter. Everything he has been told was only lies. He could remember that day, when a man showed up at his bedroom's door, with a brown leather jacket, alongside his father. "John here found your mother, Deacon. I'm sorry, but... She's gone." Those were the words that he used to introduce this fake truth, following by the cliché –and yet only truth he ever knew- "died in a car crash." But despite being only five years old at this time, Deacon could tell that this man, by his father's side, was no policeman. There was something in his eyes, a flame that could consume anything, a proof that an indestructible determination was burning within him. John. And why would you call a cop by his first name? But Deacon was soon pulled out of his thoughts when his father finally spilled the truth. "As you know, the LeRois came from France, and we can trace our roots back to the Earls of Rohan, in Britain. Henri, Earl of Rohan, had a son, Philippe, who left to the New World when he was old enough. He made quite a fortune here, unfortunately with slavery." Deacon was sure he could have discerned some kind of anger and disgust in his father's voice. "In fact, your ancestor was one of the first French to settle in Louisiana, when it was still French, where he started to cultivate cotton. When he heard the atrocities he did within the plantations his son owned, Henri de Rohan disinherited his son and did everything he could to take his distances with him, so his name would not be tainted with the horrors and dishonour of his son's taste of slavery. Philippe's son, Luc, changed his family name to LeRoi, which means 'The King' in French, because they self-proclaimed them 'King of the Plantations of Louisiana." That was already too much to take for the young Deacon, who just learned that his whole family was poisoned by dishonour because of some old greedy ancestor. Everything he learned at school, the unfortunately famous Triangle Trade, was part of his family. But it seemed that the story did not end here. "After the Civill War, where your Great-great-great-great grandfather fought in the Southern ranks, our family lost all their possessions, and the former slaves were freed by your Great-great-great grandfather John Sr. He was the first to stand up against the horrors that tainted our family. But as you know, the Louisiana fascinated many people, because of the mysticism and voodoo that is perpetrated here. And this whole voodoo and malediction thing was brought to America with the slaves, who nourished a deep hatred for their white master." This appellation sent a shiver down the spine of the two men, here sat on the bed. Now Deacon felt just like a freaking criminal, as if he, himself was part of this whole slavery atrocity. He wanted to go see his neighbours, and Jamal, his best friend, and scream them that he was sorry for the evil his family caused. But his father still wasn't finished with his story. "John Sr.'s father, however was a true monster. Louis –was his name- was happy only when he was torturing his slaves. The worst depiction of the exploitation of black people in the plantations you can imagine, Louis did it. Just when you think it can't get any worse, it is. I still have it in my office, but Louis kept tabs on his actions, like a torturer's journal. He wrote down everything he was doing to his 'toys', as he called them. And there is this entry, when all of his slaves cried upon the death of an old slave, who he described as being a voodoo priest. He said that the old man –his name was never mentioned-, died inflicting a curse upon the LeRoi's entire family." Deacon was now seeing where this story was leading him. But he needed a break, so he stood up and felt like his knees couldn't support him, as if the weight of his family's obscure story was crushing his shoulders, sending him down to hell with guilt.

"So... You're telling me that a malediction killed my mother?"

As much as he wanted to keep lying to his son –as bad as it sounded-, the kid already knew too much, and there was no point in keeping the secret any longer. "Every ten years, something comes to take a member of our family." Was he talking about ghosts? Spirits? Deacon didn't believe in all that supernatural crap, but right now, with how serious his father was, the whole salt and iron thing around the house, and once again the deadly serious gaze he was giving his son, he felt like every monster ever told in books or movies were just real. A reflex made him look at his old wooden locker, now doubting that a werewolf could jump out of it and eat him alive. His usual tanned skin was now as white as the milk he poured every morning in his coffee. But something struck him. Is this why Deacon never met any uncle, cousin, aunt or grandparents? "This is why you've never met anyone from our family. Every ten years, the spirit of this shaman comes back and takes a LeRoi." A few years prior, Alan's great-uncle Samuel, his wife and sons all died in a mysterious and still unexplained fire in their house. "And ten years ago, the shaman came back for your mother... Making a promise to come back for me, ten years later." He said, his deep voice adding more to the already dramatic event that just made Deacon's day even worse with every passing second. His father did not need to tell him, but the young boy knew that after his father, he would be the next on the list. And yet, he wanted to ask why no LeRoi ever escaped New Orleans to find shelter someplace safe, away from the ghost. It is only when he thought about the word 'ghost', that he knew he could never outrun him. "That night though, I was supposed to follow your mother's steps, but someone came just in time, drawing a salt line between me and the ghost." John! Deacon already putting the pieces back together, he remembered that man, who his father said it was a cop. "John arrived to take care of the ghost, but he was too late to save your mother. He taught me how to repel ghosts, and that he would be back when the ghost would appear."

Every family has its secrets, but right now, Deacon was so ashamed of his own family, that he just wanted to run as far away as he could, and never ever come back. His ancestor was a monster, and the terrible assassination of a hoodoo priest cursed them all to the grave. He wanted to talk, to just spill out everything he had on his heavy heart, but his throat seemed to be tighter than ever before. Not a single word could escape his lips. Only tears were able to leave his body, expressing just how much this whole story affected him. So as he was unable to say or do anything, Deacon stormed out of his bedroom, ignoring his father's call to hug it out or even his apologies, and ran toward the first room that he could find: his father's bedroom. Deacon entered and slammed the door behind him, turned the lock and sat against the door, crying his eyes out. Alan and his son lived in an old wooden house, in dire need of renovation, but this was not Deacon's first worries, at the moment. Yet, when he had slammed the door behind him, the vibration spread on the wooden walls and ran toward the window, shaking enough to make the iron bar previously placed atop of the window, drop onto the leather chair placed aside. The drop was silenced by the incredibly soft and aired composition of the seat. And as if luck was on their side, the heavy iron bar falling onto the leather seat produced a soft wind, that blew some of the salt away, leaving a tiny little opening in the trail.

Alan's hammering fists on the door weren't loud enough to cover Deacon's cries. He just learned that his whole life was a lie, and that he was cursed because of some terrific act his ancestor did. How could be held responsible for something he wasn't part of? He just wanted to run away, change his name, start a new life and forget everything about what his father told him. Perhaps being lied to wasn't so bad, after all. But while his sobs were blurring his vision and lowered his hearing, something pulled him out of his state. The alarm clock on his father's nightstand suddenly started to ring. The digital quadrant displayed 11:11 AM, and the youngster just noticed that his father's pounding had stopped. When the alarm clock finally stopped, Deacon was up on his feet, curious as to why the alarm would go off at such a time of the day. He slowly approached it, to see that this hour was only picked for this particular day, as Mon, Tue, Wed, Thu, Sat and Sun were all designated by the alarm's hour of 5:30. Why this choice?

"COME HERE QUICK!" His father's voice suddenly broke the silence, making once again Deacon jump out of his skin. "IT IS TIME PLEASE COME BACK TO ME!" Deacon didn't need to hear more, he knew exactly what his father implied with these short yelling. The youngster quickly turned on his heel to face the door, but yet, a scream escaped his lips. Between him and the door was standing an old black skinned man, dressed in nineteenth century rags, a wide toothless grin shifting his hideous face into some disturbed sight of horror. Deacon could almost see through him, and was yet surprised to hear nothing behind the door. Did his father just abandoned him to the ghost to spare his own life? Was he trapped in some kind of parallel dimension by the shaman, where they were just the two of them in this world? However, by the look given by the ghost to him, the young student knew he would not get any answer, and that he would soon join the Maker, leaving behind a world much darker than he previously thought. Deacon survived Katrina just to fall to some ghost. Who could believe it?

And suddenly, out of the blue, an unknown voice blasted from behind the door. "GET DOWN!" The voice distracted the ghost, who turned in the direction of the door, giving Deacon enough time to throw himself onto the floor, his hands behind his head. But his eyes focused on the action, staring at the door, to try and see who this mysterious voice belonged to. After what seemed like an endless wait, the lock gave up, and the door was literally ripped off its hinges, revealing a young blond man, whose foot touched ground. Did he kick the door open?! But what caught his eyes, next, was the double barrel shotgun he was holding in his hands. Deacon saw the stranger noticed his presence, but his attention was soon focused on the ghost, who used the confusion to dash toward him. A loud explosion occurred, the shotgun spitting flames out of his mouths, sending two projectiles into the ghost, who was sent back flying, disappearing into the same moves. A couple seconds later, only Deacon, his father –who stormed in the room to hold his son close to him- and the stranger were walking the floor. The youngster couldn't hear what his father was saying, like deafened by the loud sound produced by the gun, but his eyes, though, worked perfectly. And they noticed a detail that sent him back in time. Ten years prior, when he saw that leather jacket for the first time. There was no doubt it was the exact same jacket, made of old fatigued leather, yet the person wearing it was different. Upon closer inspection, though, his face bore similarities with that mysterious John who apparently saved his father ten years prior.

"Deacon?" His father voice finally pierced the veil, bringing him back to reality. "Deacon you okay? Did you get hurt?" His son could only nod his head, signifying he was alright, yet just shocked, as he stood up. His eyes never let their mysterious saviour's sight. "This is Dean, he is the son of John, who saved me ten years ago. Now come, we gotta leave the house /now/!" The stranger –now revealed to be named Dean-, asked Alan to grab the iron bar that has fallen on the leather seat. In the heat of the moment, Alan sent his son toward Dean, who shoved him out of the room, running by his side. "C'mon kid, we gotta get to my car." The newly formed duo made their way through the corridor, but Deacon's mind was still on his father. Where was he? And Dean noticed it. "Don't worry, he is right behind us."

When they finally reached the entrance door, Dean led the young shocked kid toward his car, who appeared like a glowing beacon out of the smoky surroundings of Deacon's life. He was pushed on the rear seat of the magnificent black '67 Impala, while Dean reloaded his gun, shutting the door closed at the same time. Both of them looked at the house's entrance, when finally, Alan appeared, holding the iron bar in his large plumber hands. "Hurry up!" Dean shouted at him, when suddenly, out of nowhere, the ghost appeared behind Alan, his signature creepy grin flashing on his dark and elder face. In a split second, a hand pierced through Alan's chest, colouring his purple New Orleans' Saints shirt in red, while the light in his green eyes seemed to fade away. Everything happened so damn fast, Deacon couldn't print everything. The hand and the ghost disappeared, and Alan dropped dead on the ground. The fifteen year old boy wanted to run out of the car and check on his father, but Dean had already settled behind the while, and drove off the parking slot, the tires screeching on the old asphalt.

Not a word was spoken in the car. Deacon didn't know where Dean was taking him but he just didn't care. In a single morning, the young student learned about his family, about the curse, the truth on his mother's death and witnessed his father's murder by a ghost. A freaking ghost! He still could not believe it. When Deacon's mind finally started to settle down, he recognized the New Orleans' public library. Without a word, Dean helped Deacon out of the car and led him inside the library, heading straight toward the public record section of the building. "I'm sorry about your father, but now we must find out who this man was before he was turned into a ghost, so we can put him to rest and keep you safe." Deacon didn't reply. He blindly followed his saviour, not knowing how his body was carrying him around. He felt like an empty shell, unable to command any action, and yet his legs carried him around, following the blond haired man through the different sections. "Damn it could be anyone... If Sammy was here, he could find it quick!" Suddenly, a flash occurred in Deacon's mind. "Wait!" He intervened, remembering the story his father told him earlier. "Dad told me that a shaman slave cursed our family, back before the Civil War... He was very loved by his kin, and was killed by..." Perhaps this was not the time to reveal what part his family played in it. "By the owner of a plantation, not so far from here." Deacon then led Dean to the local history section, and after a conjoint search, the pair finally found the article they were looking for. "De Rohan's Plantation." Inside, they found the address, learning that it was now turned into a museum on slavery, and that some movies even turned some of their scenes here. But all these revelations did not matter to Dean, who pressed Deacon back to the car.

On their way toward their destination, Dean quickly explained that in order to put the ghost to rest and ensure Deacon's safety, they would need to dig up the bones, salt and burn them. The young student didn't ask more questions and followed him. When they finally arrived, the pair joined a group led by a tour guide who explained the story of the plantation. The guide led them through the enormous property, to finally arrive where the slaves were living. It was a small like village, with six old wooden little houses, all built in circle around what seemed to be an ancient bonfire. Dean, though, seemed to take more interest into that place. As the group followed the tour guide, Dean revealed that they would have to come back tonight, as he was almost sure to find the body here.

The sun had disappeared behind the trees, and the moon started its ascension through the sky, plunging the whole country into the darkness. The ancient plantation was deadly silent, and yet, a purring sound approached the small cottage. The Impala parked here, its headlights directly pointing toward the bonfire they stopped before. Dean turned to Deacon, who was sat on the passenger seat. "Okay, buddy, now listen to me closely. I'm almost sure that the shaman was buried here. The slaves considered this as their sacred haven, and thus wanted to bury their loved one here. So I'm gonna dig up the corpse. The ghost won't like it, so he will probably show, and that's when you enter the game. You will have to cover me." He then grabbed a lever action rifle from the bag seat. "It's loaded with rock salt shells." He said as he played the lever, revealing the distinctive red shell in the chamber. "These babies hurt them ghosts and make 'em disappear for a while. He's a former shaman, though, so he will probably come back quick." Dean showed his partner-for-a-night how to reload it, and gave him a few other shells, that Deacon quickly shoved in his pockets. "You aim, you pull the trigger and you crack the lever, alright?" Deacon responded positively and both got out of the car.

Dean, shovel in hand, started to dig where he previously mentioned, casually glancing over at Deacon, who seemed to take his role at heart. This was his chance to avenge his mother and his father, he would not fail. Rifle in hands, Deacon scanned their surroundings, trying his best to listen to any noises, aside from the distinctive sound produced by Dean's shovel in the dirt. And just as the pile of dirt by the hole was getting bigger and bigger, Deacon's breathe suddenly turned to smoke, and felt like the air was freezing around them. "Watch out!" Dean screamed from the pit, just as the ghost appeared behind Deacon. Surprised by the sudden apparition, Deacon fell down on his back, looking up directly at the ghost, who was about to leap right onto him. "SHOOT!" Dean yelled as he climbed out of the hole. Deacon's finger pulled the trigger, and his eyes closed, preparing for the loud eruption of the canon, blasting the rock salt projectile right in the ghost's mouth. "Good job, kiddo! Stay on your guard!" Deacon took it as a sign to open his eyes, and through the thin line of smoke coming out of the rifle, the ghost was no more. The youngster did as told and played the lever, and for just an instant, Deacon felt like Schwarzenegger in Terminator 2, as he marched down the hallway, shooting at Robert Patrick's T-1000. The reality quick caught back, the air froze again, and the white smoke escaped his mouth. The young gunman jumped on his feet and spun around, until he spotted the ghost dashing toward him, a raging battle cry emanating from his decaying mouth. BAM! Another round and the ghost disappeared. Another action of the lever. Air froze again, ghost appeared, another shot, another lever's action. The adrenaline rushing through his veins made his heart beat like a horse running at full speed. Deacon was scared as hell, but a strange feeling surrounded him, as if his mother was lovingly holding his shoulders, and his father supported the rifle to aid him to aim at the ghost. "Found him, kid!" Dean jumped out of the hole and sprayed the bones with the salt he had in the large canister, while his other hand soaked the same bones with some fuel. His hand searched his pocket, to pull out the matches he was given at his motel room, when Deacon's voice finally expressed something. "Wait! I wanna torch the sucker."

Revenge. Dean knew this too much, so he grabbed the rifle and handed him the matchbox, nodding softly. "Alright kid." The ghost suddenly appeared and sent Dean flying away with a large wave of his hand, knocking him out of his shoes. Now on his own, Deacon was left alone, facing the ghost, spotting Dean in the corner of his eyes, who landed against the wooden fence of the little house. "Hasta la vista, baby." He said, on a determined tone, as he light the matches and tossed it in the whole, just as the ghost leaped on him. His fist raised in the air, ready to be thrown at his face for an ultimate blow that would send him directly to his parents, when suddenly, the ghost burnt off and disappearing. Not a single ash fell on him, but yet, he saw him burning completely, in a loud painful scream.

It was over. The ghost was done and Deacon was all alone in the world, laid down in the dirt, a hole dug up next to him, with a burning skeleton finally laid to rest. "Hasta la vista, baby?" Dean's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, as he helped him back on his feet. "Shooting a lever action rifle made you feel like Arnold, right?" Dean chuckled as a smile finally appeared on Deacon's face, now freed from this curse whatsoever. "You did good here." He said as he grabbed the shovel and started to recover the hole with the dirt previously dug up. "Thank you Dean, for everything." He said, on a neutral tone, despite feeling a painful sting in his heart, now realizing that he was an orphan, with no family to take care of him. And yet, he realized that the world he lived in was much more cruel than he thought. Ghosts were real and could kill living people. But as he watched Dean covering the improvised tomb, Deacon knew that there are people out here who exist to hunt the monsters down. And despite the speech Dean gave him to keep on studying and leading a normal life, Deacon knew exactly what he would do of his life. And it was confirmed when he was left at his old house, on his own request. He watched the Impala driving away and rested his eyes on the piece of paper he was holding in his hands, with a phone number on it and Dean Winchester written above them. The day Deacon lost everything was the first day of his new life, when he started to train and read up on occult, guns and legends. The first day Deacon trained to be a hunter.

* * *

Deacon could never forget this day. In a single day, the young student had lost everything, as well as all hope for a normal life. He already knew that he couldn't just stand idle while other families were attacked by the same monsters you were told don't exist. Dean, however, refused to take him in to train him, telling him that he had a new chance to start over a new to stay normal. But the young New Orleanian did not stop here; alcohol is a powerful tool. Some hunters sure chat a lot when they drink a wee bit too much, giving some info that some monsters would kill to get. Thanks to a certain Pierce (who claims to be the Hunter King of Baton Rouge for some reason), Deacon learned the existence of an old hunter, a real encyclopaedia, living in Sioux Falls, Dakota. Still to this day, Deacon owes all of his experience and training to the late hunters Bobby Singer and Rufus Turner. However, as the years passed and his skills increased, Deacon teamed up numerous times with the Winchesters, always ready to lend a helping hand to the man who saved him and opened the doors to the 'Life' as hunters call it.

Ten years later, Deacon was a respected hunter in the community, and considered a specialist in Louisiana's mystic nature, often called for help when dealing with an evil bokor or some rougarou's rampage. Ten years later, though, another event would shatter his world once again. While the Darkness was set free by the breaking of the Mark of Cain, another evil lurked in the shadows, surrounding Deacon. A phantom from his past who change his life forever.


End file.
